The Nazi Boy

Welcome to my life

I remember almost nothing of that day now. I have no idea why that Jew killed my parents; all I know is that there were debts unpaid. All I was told was that a Jew had killed them. “All Jews are evil.” I was told. I believed it. Maybe I should have just cast it off my back. Maybe then, I would have not been a murderer. Maybe I would not be here.

I was born in Bavaria, Germany. September 14, 1922. Son of Marissa and Matthias Pfaff. My mother was a common housewife but my father a well-known pharmacist. When I was six, they were killed. I have never learnt who did the deed, just that it was a Jew. I had heard a loud argument, that fateful day, when I was playing outside in the backyard. I heard my mother screaming, but it wasn’t scolding, or mad. It was a terrified, blood-curling scream. I raced around the house, into the parlour. My father was yelling, screaming things that were usually forbidden to ears and mouths, except in the most crude of people. The neighbours found me, hours later, in deep shock, in the fetal position. They took me away, bringing me to the only place they could think care for me at that young, vital age. It was during the depression, when no one had extra food, time or money to raise another child.